


Runaway

by ItsYaGirlKit



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alastor is Bad at Feelings (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor is in Hell for a Reason (Hazbin Hotel), Asexuality Spectrum, Demisexual Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Smut, F/M, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Manipulative Relationship, Pregnancy, Soft Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Tags May Change, Unhealthy Relationships, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:54:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29192625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsYaGirlKit/pseuds/ItsYaGirlKit
Summary: You had enough. Enough of the second-guessing and the doubt. You knew you needed to get out. The only real question was, would he let you go?
Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Reader
Comments: 26
Kudos: 111





	1. Away

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something I made for fun.

A year. You could hardly believe it as you stared out at the coastline. The sun was setting, the sky a vibrant pink and orange, the ocean a deep wine red from the reflection. You didn’t think you could ever get over this place, so much different from the Bayou with humidity so thick it was like a hand pressing down on your throat.

Here in California, any heat was soothed by the breeze coming off of the ocean. You smiled out at the vast horizon, taking a deep breath as you took it all in.

You knew that you should be feeling more panicked. The money that you had stolen was running low after a year and would only get worst as time goes on. You had been careful, only buying the bare essentials and nothing more but you would have to find a supplement income and fast. As you felt the gentle sea spray, none of that could touch you right now. After all, you’ve already lived with the worst, and you knew that poverty was nothing compared to the gilded cage you had escaped from.

No, not when you had another person to think about.

To your left stood a buggy, a small child wrapped up in a thin, yellow blanket. Her delicate features were relaxed as she snoozed away with her rosy lips parted. You smiled gently down at your daughter and sent a prayer of thanks to whatever god that was listening that you had been blessed with her.

Viola. _Sweet, innocent, little Viola._

Sometimes it was easy to forget who her father was. She had taken mostly after you in the looks department with bright eyes and soft, downy hair. There were moments, though, moments of fear where you are frozen, staring at your offspring in terror when think you see a glint in her eye. It forces you to imagine how wrong things could have gone if you had stayed with him.

Or, when in a moment of weakness, you find yourself craving his touch, his arms around you, his soft, deep voice whispering in your ear. You would scan your daughter, trying to see any sliver of him in her visage to no avail.

Those days were the worst. You would sob all day about the life that you had lost, every piece of you that you had given up. You hated yourself when you would find yourself in the wooden phone booth, at the corner, listening to the operator asking you who you would like to place a call to. The numbers of his station danced behind your eyelids as they dared you to call in.

Would he pick up? Would he even care? Did he lie awake at night like you did, missing the familiar warmth of a body? When he came home to an empty house, did he shrug his shoulders and move on, found some other woman to entertain him?

You wanted to hiss that thought away, a fire in your belly and an insidious voice in your head insisting that he was yours when you knew the opposite to be true. You were his. He made it abundantly clear. He took care of you, bought you the latest fashion, brought you to speakeasies to dance the night away, and still managed to work at the station to ensure your house had all the latest technology and the most in-vogue furniture, despite never having people over.

On the outside, it looked perfect. He was a devoted husband, providing for her and all of her whims. So many people complimented her with thinly veiled jealously.

“What a good husband he is!”

“You lucky gal, you better hold on to him. What a keeper!”

“My goodness, looking at you two makes me believe in love again!”

You knew it was all a lie. The most he felt for you was some sick, perverted possession. You were his toy, his little wife that no one else was allowed to touch. You gave him your heart, and he had given you crumbs of affection in exchange.

There were many a night where you sat there and wondered why he bothered. Were you perhaps a cover for his darker impulses? You had been instructed very clearly not to question the bloodstains and late nights, but you were not an idiot. You saw the glee on his face when he read the newspaper and even heard it in his voice when he reported his crimes during his show. He was so convinced that he was fooling them all, _fooling you._

You were stuck in a vicious cycle, being equally repelled and attracted to a man who held your heart on marionette strings. You could never imagine a life without him; you thought that even if you did run, you would never get this far. It was like he had a supernatural hold on you.

Or he did until you realized that your period was a month late.

You waited for another month before it confirmed your worst fear, you were pregnant.

It was the wake-up call you needed. What he was, it wouldn’t only affect you now. You had to protect your child. Within a week, you had a plan. The nuns had always scolded you about your determination, how pig-headed you could get until you got what you wanted. But now that flaw was your saving grace. You had been married for over four years and had known Alsator for five. While he claimed he knew every move you were about to make, it seemed to never occur to him that you could say the same.

Alastor wasn’t careful with money; barely any was in the bank. He preferred to hide it around the house, in loose floorboards, and between the pages of books. Setting about your task, you gathered as much as your guilt allowed. Your Catholic upbringing ringing in your ears about ‘thou shall not steal’ as you carefully tucked it away between the folds of your dresses. You packed only the bare essentials, a few clothes in a small suitcase, the rosary your mother gave you before she passed, and a few photographs. They were mostly of your family; brothers and sisters that had moved away or succumbed to illness or war.

Your hand hovered over a small frame, one of you and Alastor on your wedding day. He looked as dapper as ever, his smile stunning. But you, oh you. You looked absolutely radiant. Even through the grainy black and white color, you could see how you were incandescent with happiness. And why shouldn’t you have been? At the time, it was the best day of your life. The girl in the photo seemed foreign to you now. Had the years really worn away at you that much? It seemed it had. In the end, you took it. You tried to rationalize to yourself that it would be a good reminder to never fall for a man like that again.

As you were heading to the door, you paused by the kitchen island. Should you leave a note? Did he deserve one?

_**No.** _

Not after everything he put you through. The wedding band clinked against the countertop, the only testimony you will leave your husband. He didn’t own you. Not anymore.

The next few months were spent shuttling between towns. You didn’t know if you should go as far North as possible to Detriot or head West. As you stood at the grand station in St. Louis, your eyes traced the lines on the map. Detriot would be a shorter trip, but your eyes kept straying to California. Thousands were flocking to its sunny shores with the promise of stardom and fame. It was an easy place to get lost in.

So it was decided. You found a kind widow that rented a back room to you. She helped you find a few people that would let you be their seamstress, doing small fixes here and there. It was enough to cover the rent and not much more. But you were happy, and a few months later, when you pushed your daughter into the world, you knew it would all be worth it.

Thoughts of Alastor faded from your mind over time. There were fewer nights where you woke up in a cold sweat, hands reaching out for a warm body that wasn’t there. And even fewer where you thought about what might have been.

You repressed a shudder. There was no use dwelling on the past, especially since Alastor Beaumont would have no impact on either one of your futures.


	2. Found

It was stupid. _You_ were stupid. You should have known he would never give up, that he would follow you to the ends of the Earth if it meant getting his toy back.

* * *

It had all started a week ago when you were walking downtown to apply for a seamstress job at a local shop. You had left Viola with Ms. David for the evening. Your elderly landlord/roommate absolutely adored your daughter, having no grandchildren of her own to dot upon. It worked out well for you; Viola would be well taken care of while you worked, although leaving her for even a moment felt painful. She was only three months old and there were times when you wished she was still nestled inside you, safe from the outside world.

Around you, the people bustled about their day. It was a marked difference from New Orleans, where everyone seemed to take everything slow, savoring every moment of the day. The early morning light filtered down upon the streets, casting everything in its warm glow. The red trolly’s bell rung out across the street as it slowed down to allow passengers to get off or hop on. The referral paper in your hand crinkled in your death grip, tucked under your arm was your work samples. Your mother had taught you to sew before the influenza stole her and while you were no maestro, your stitches were straight and neat.

Perhaps it was your nervousness that made you hyperaware, but when you entered the shop, your eye caught sight of a man across the street. You looked away quickly, hoping he didn’t notice you. It was a man Alastor knew, you could recognize that premature salt and pepper hair anywhere. Heart thudding in your chest you barely made it through the interview. Your thoughts ran wild while your mouth answered the woman’s questions. Was he here to find you? No, that couldn’t be. Husk was a barman and a gambler, not a private eye. You had to be mistaken.

After being promised a trial run next week you exited the shop. Your eyes scanned the street, not seeing the man anywhere. Doubt stirred inside of you, there was a possibility that you were being paranoid. Still. You didn’t want to take any risks. Pulling your shaw closer around you, you took the long way home, winding through busy streets and taking unnecessary detours. You thought that you might actually sprain your neck with how often you were looking over your shoulder. It was late by the time you made it back to your apartment. The sun was setting over the brick buildings, throwing everything into stark relief. The door creaked when you opened it and the eclectic smells of everyone’s dinner hit you full force.

A giggle floated down from the second floor, along with the pitter-patter of tiny feet. A family had moved into the unit above you last week.

Some days, when you would catch the father leaving in the early morning, you would sigh and pretend he was your husband—a perfectly normal man who was capable of loving someone other than himself. A man who would come home, give his wife a kiss and play with his children.

Behind your door, you could hear Viola screaming. Giving one last sigh, you stored your fantasy for later. Right now, you had a daughter to take care of.

* * *

“How was she?” Viola had finally settled down, worn out from her crying fit. You figured you had a couple of hours before she rose again to demand to be feed.

“A doll, as always. Well...up until the end,” Ms. David smiled over the glass rim at you. She sipped on a warm cup of milk while you nursed a mug of tea. While you both physically sat in the small kitchen, your mind was hundreds of miles away, deep in the Bayou.

“Penny for your thoughts, dear?”

“Hmm?” you asked before you shook your head. “I’m sorry, Ms. David. I was thinking of my husband.”

“Ah, missing him?” She asked, a knowing look in her eye. You had told Ms. David that you were a widow, but a part of you suspected that she knew that wasn’t true.

“A bit. Maybe. I don’t know,” you finished up your tea before you changed the subject.“I got a job.”

Ms. David clapped her hands in delight, a genuine smile stretched across her weather-beaten face.

“That’s wonderful! When do you start? Oh, we’ll have to celebrate. Tomorrow I’ll make a pudding.” She started to ramble off, for a moment forgetting what you had said about your errant husband.

The rest of the evening passed quickly. Both of you were early risers, so you said your goodnight around nine. When you entered your small room at the back of the unit, you leaned heavily upon the closed door. Viola was in her crib, a beaten wooden contraption that Ms. David’s son had sanded down and stained for you when he visited over the summer. The quilt on your bed was what you imagine used to be vibrant with colors, but years in the sun had bleached it to a shadow of its former glory. You collapsed upon the bed; arms spread wide as you stared up at the ceiling and considered your choices.

The man might not have been Husk anyway, you tried to reason to yourself. And if he was, who said Alastor sent him to find you? He could be here to open an underground gambling den or find work at the docks. Besides, you had fled a little over a year ago; why would Alastor bother to try to find you now? Even if it was him, this was California, not his native New Orleans, where it seemed he had friends everywhere. He could not force you to come back. Turning over in bed, your eyes fell on your wedding photo. A spiderweb defaced the glass, product of a particularly emotional night when you tried to smash it in a fit of rage.

Looking at the ruined frame, the picture obscured thanks to the cracks, you considered what would happen if Alastor did find you. It never even occurred to you that you might be his next victim, that he would take his anger out on you. Even on your darkest days, you knew that Alastor would never lay a hand on you. No, his punishments were more of the mental and emotional variety. But you were a mother now. You would draw strength from your daughter and not fall for his poisonously sweet words again.

 _‘None of that matters,’_ you thought to yourself as you snuggled your thin pillow, _‘He isn’t going to find us.’_

* * *

A week passed. There was no more sighting of the man who may or may not have been Husk and you placed it out of your mind. Your first day at the shop would start tomorrow, and you needed clean clothes for it. Ms. David was at church, an activity that you knew would last well into the night. Viola was sleeping soundly in her crib, her tiny fist up by her head as she slumbered, so you tried to take advantage of it and get some housework done. Your window was open, so you could hear if she woke up. While you fought with the laundry line, your mouth full of clothespins, a song came on the radio to distract you.

_Where somebody waits for me, sugar's sweet, so is she,  
Bye-bye Blackbird._

_No one here can love and understand me.  
Oh, what hard-luck stories they all hand me._

The radio crooned. It was a newer song, and you found yourself bobbing along to the beat as your hands made quick work of your dress and Viola’s diapers. You were almost finished when you noticed that the radio had been turned off, but you could still hear humming. Your body froze, hands halfway raised as you pulled away from the laundry line.

Heartbeat in your ear, you turned back towards your window, praying that you were mistaken.

But you weren’t. You had been with him for over five years and knew his humming well. The low tones that perforated your house as he prepared dinner or dressed for work, every mundane task turning into a musical production.

And now he was standing there, less than five feet away from you, his arms cradling your child close to his chest. The breath fell out of you in one fell swoop, your mouth agape as you hungrily took him in.

He hadn’t changed; his face was still as thin and angular as the rest of his body. His signature smile was there, but it was softer as he stared down at Viola. When he looked up though, his smile morphed into one of triumph, his eyes glinting with amusement. You felt sick to your stomach as you slowly walked towards him, with only the thinnest mesh of the window frame separating you two.

“There you are, my dear. My, my, you gave me a run for my money there,” he chided gently, his lips pulled back into a snarl as he beckoned for you to come inside. He smiled back down at Viola as he lowered her into her crib.

“Come now. I see we have _much_ to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that commented and left Kudos! I'm so happy that you enjoyed it. The next chapter is written; I need to finish editing it. It will most likely be updated this weekend/early next week.


	3. Explanation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sexual content and emotional and mental abuse.

“Well, dear?” He had insisted that you stay in the same room as Viola. You knew it was just another form of control; you would be forced to keep your voice down so you wouldn’t disturb the sleeping babe. He had planned it perfectly; because, of course, he did. Almost no one remained in the building; all the tenets were either at the beach, church, or shopping.

“Well, what?” you whispered back as you stubbornly refused to look at him. His back was to the door, blocking your only exit.

“Hm. Perhaps I should start?” he asked lightly as he clasped his hands behind him and rocked on his heels. You stared at the black surface of the polished leather; it was so shiny that you could see your face reflected.

He walked towards you, and you took a step back until you were against the rough plaster wall and had nowhere else to run. With one finger he tilted your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“A year ago, I came home from work. Eager to see my lovely wife and have a delicious dinner and instead I found myself robbed with this,” he produced your wedding ring from his pocket, the rose gold band glinted in the light, “on the counter, and no lovely wife to be seen.” His eyes narrowed, but that pleasant smile never wavered on his face.

“Now, you can imagine how heartbreaking this was for me. I never knew you could be so cruel,” he bopped you on the nose as he pocketed the ring once more. “I thought for certain ‘No, my little doe wouldn’t do this to me. She will surely be back soon.’ And I waited. And you never showed.” His hand slammed into the wall beside your head as the smile finally dropped. The sound startled you, the loud vibration jarred your stoic face. You gasped, your hands coming up instinctively to push against his chest.

He did not budge; his eyes drilled holes into your yours.

“A year,” he whispered, his gloved hand came up to gently trace your face. His touch was just a whisper, but you felt yourself lean into it. You hadn’t been with anyone else, ever. Your body only knew Alastor, and it had _missed_ him.

“You gave me quite a chase. You know I _hate_ to chase things,” his hand tensed, the leather of his gloves scraped against your cheek, “Was that what you were banking on? That I wouldn’t betray my moral code and pursue you? _Silly girl_.” He lowered his face towards yours. Your breath came out in short pants as your mind was torn in two.

All those thoughts that you had earlier, about the strength you could draw from your daughter, about standing up to him, they scattered to the window the moment you smelled his cologne, saw his face, felt the heat coming off of his body. He was a drug to you, and worst, he knew it.

“You are _**mine**_.”

“Alastor-,” you sighed, a thousand half-hearted arguments on your tongue, but he closed the gap between you. His lips were gentle at first, but the kiss quickly grew more heated. You gasped in pain as he bit your lip, and he took advantage of it to invade your mouth. His tongue dominated yours as he explored your mouth. You could taste his morning coffee and copper from the cut he just gifted you. His hands were on your back, pressing you tightly to him as if he wished to absorb you. Your own hands were threaded in his hair, dislodging his careful style.

He broke contact but didn’t go far, which you were grateful for because you didn’t think you could stand just yet. He hovered in front of you, his breathing ragged as he continued to hold you fast.

“Oh, _ma moitié._ How I’ve missed you,” his tone was soft and loving, but you could see the coldness in his eyes, the anger that sat simmering beneath the surface. You tried to pull away further, but he tightened his grip.

“Tell me you missed me,” he ran his nose up the column of your neck, his hot breath heated your cold skin.

“N-no,” you lied as you held onto him, your legs felt like jelly. His back stiffened; his muscles were taut under your claw-like grip.

“Oh, sweet girl. You know I _loathe_ it when you lie to me,” He pulled back to _tsk_ at you before he straightened his glasses. You didn’t respond to him; your breath caught in your throat. Your skin felt like there was an electric current dancing under it. You were sure that you were flushed, your eyes already glazed over with lust. He cocked his head to the side; his eyes narrowed to slits as he took you in.

“Should I punish you?” he wondered out loud, his hand ghosting over your throat. You tilted your chin definitely, exposing your neck further. The threat was empty; even you knew that. He flexed briefly around your throat before going slack. His lips puckered as he considered his options, his eyes cast about before it landed on the crib.

He turned slightly away from you but still kept you well within his sights. You tensed, your body ready to block his progress if he tried to pick up Viola again.

“You’ve certainly punished me,” he whispered. You flinched back, not expecting the hurt in his tone. You and Alastor had never discussed children. When you were first married, you had assumed that you would have them like everyone else in your generation, but with the limited intimacy, you two shared, you had let go of that dream. He had certainly never given you any indication that he wanted any.

“Don’t-,” you started, it was your worst fear, him using your child as a further means of controlling you. “Do not bring her into this.”

“How can I not? The timelines line up. You ran away to keep me away from our child.” His tone was even, his eyes never strayed from the crib.

“Can you blame me?” you murmured as you placed one hand on his chin and turned him away from Viola. He put up no resistance; his dark green eyes confronted yours. Your hand contracted slightly at the genuine hurt they displayed.

He quickly placed your hand back on his face, seeming to savor the contact, his eyes flutter closed from a moment. Your heart constricted as your hands gently curved to fit his cheek.

“Have I hurt you?” he asked suddenly, his eyes abruptly opened.

You stared at him in shock. Did he really have to ask you that question?

“Didn’t I give you everything you wanted? The entertainment, my bed, my attention, and time. I thought that was what you wanted.” He seemed earnest in his request, making you pause to consider what he said.

Was it really a possibility that he really didn’t know how much you shrank in his shadow. How you seconded guessed yourself and others. Sequestered away from society, deep in the Bayou in a house you absolutely hated, away from all your friends and the few family members that remained.

He had demanded all of your attention, even when you would go to the clubs together. If he was playing, he wanted you to be right by the stage to see him battle with the sax player for the right to a solo. If your eyes strayed you or you got caught up talking to the bartender or anyone else, no matter the gender, he would become irate. To the outside world, he was as charming as ever, but you could see how strained his smile was, how his eyes narrowed in irritation. You had isolated yourself to head off any trouble, refusing to look anywhere but at him.

But was that his fault? You were the one who decided to do it.

“ _Mon rêve_ , please,” he took another step towards you, his chest touching yours. You had to tilt your head back to keep his face in your view, “Let me show you how much you mean to me.” With that, his lips were on yours again, stealing your breath and scattering your thoughts. All of your points and examples flew out of your head, your doubt filled the space. He seemed so sincere; surely you would know if he was lying? In all your years with him, you had never seen him this way, the Alastor you knew would rather cut off his own foot before showing any kind of emotional weakness.

Perhaps a year away had changed him.

He continued his kiss, your lips parting with little resistance as you subconsciously spread your legs.

With one motion, he picked you up, your ankles locked around his waist as he carried you to the bed. The well-worn quilt was soft against your back, the bad springs groaned under the weight. He laid you down without breaking contact, the wound on your lip reopening from the aggressive force. You could feel his hardness push against your core through both your clothes. You surpassed a moan, a delightful shiver of anticipation raced up you. Intimacy was rare with your husband; it was one reason you were shocked when you found out you were pregnant. He typically viewed sex as either an award for you or to show that you belonged to him.

He broke away for a moment, his thumb wiped against your lip, gathering the blood that had pooled there before he stuck it in his mouth. He closed his eyes in pleasure; a quiet groan slipped out and filled the air between you.

You were breathless, your mind in body finally in synch with what it wanted. Him. You _needed_ him, in any way he would give you.

“You were always my favorite flavor,” his lids were half-closed as he continued to hover over you, his legs straddled your waist.

“Al-,” you tried again to speak to him, but he shushed you. The leather of the glove tough and unyielding against your lips before he slowly brought it up to his mouth, and using his teeth, he took off the glove. You felt your heart stutter in your chest as you waited to see what he would do. He dipped his head to capture your lips once more as his hand made its way downward. Your stomach tightened when you felt him pass over it and to the hem of your dress. He made short work of your knickers, pushing the cotton fabric far enough down your legs that you were able to kick them off.

And then he was there, his hand cupped your mound before a finger dipped down into the soaking hole. You gasped as you felt him move inside of you, mapping your inner walls with his callous touch.

“Look how wet you are for me,” he whispered against your ear, his breath giving you goosebumps. He plunged another digit in, scissoring them inside of you before they came up to that hidden sweet spot.

“You haven’t been with anyone else?” he continued to whisper as his thumb pressed down on your clit while the fingers inside of your continued their steady rhythm. You almost came right then and there, your inner walls tightening before he sadistically slowed down. Your ministrations on yourself for the last year were a pale comparison for this.

“No-no one,” you moaned as you rutted into his hand, silently begging him to give you more.

“Good girl,” he praised before he dipped his head down again to mark your neck. You practically purred at the compliment, a not so small part of you had missed his little praises. It wasn’t long before his fingers sped up, plunging in and out of you as you held onto him for dear life. The obscene sound of your slick filled the room as you bit the space between his neck and shoulder to muffle the moans, although nothing could stop the telltale creaking of the bedsprings.

“Come on now, that’s a good girl, cum for me,” he continued to praise, his own voice breathy as his pupils were blown wide watching you get closer and closer to the abyss. You could feel his hardness against you, his hips subconsciously bucking in time with his hand. You felt yourself get closer and closer to the edge, and then, with a twist of his fingers on your clit, you were gone.

Your body went rigid; hands turned into claws as you brought him as close to you as possible, a long whine escaped from clenched teeth. It was nirvana, bliss, heaven, whatever. A year away had only made your body crave him more.

His lips connected with yours once again, while his hands did away with his belts and pants. You barely recovered from your first orgasm before he plunged inside of you. There was a slight twinge at the sudden intrusion, your body no longer use to something so large, but the waves of pleasure you were experiencing quickly eclipsed it.

“Oh, Alastor,” you moaned. You could feel every ridge on his cock as it pulsed inside of you. His pace was brutal; it was clear that he wasn’t in the mood for a drawn-out session.

“Tell me you missed me,” he panted into your ear before he gave your neck a few light bites.

“I missed-oh! I-I missed you, I missed you,” you chanted, your face buried into his neck, your legs tight against his waist. A particularly hard thrust brushed against your sensitive clit, forcing another orgasm. You bit down on his neck at the sudden pleasure and managed to break the skin. Alastor groaned, his pace picked up as he desperately chased his own release.

“Fuck,” he swore when he finally stilled deep inside of you. You could feel his warmth fill you up, his cock twitching as it finished its release.

He collapsed on top of you, his body off just enough that you could breathe. You both laid there, still intimately connected while you both rode out the waves of your pleasure. The sweat on your skin cooled, causing you to shiver. He pulled back enough to watch you lick his blood off of your lips, his eyes intense behind their wired frames.

A soft touch brushed your hair out of your face, the strands falling from his hands. He finally pulled out; you whine at the loss, wanting him to stay nestled inside of you for a bit longer. As you turned over to face him, your eyes scanned his body and commit it to memory. Outside, the light faded; Ms. David would be home soon.

“Come back,” he begged, his voice so soft and gentle you could hardly believe it came from him.

“Alastor,” you sighed once more. A slight gurgle from the crib alerted you that Viola had finally woken up. It was a timely reminder of why you left in the first place. “I can’t-.”

“Whatever you need,” he whispered, his face coming closer as he softly kissed you, “I’ll change. I’ll be what you need me to be. Just. Come back,” he looked so vulnerable as he looked at you through his thick eyelashes. You had never seen him beg. You didn’t think he was capable of it.

He could see your hesitation, your eyes darted back to the crib before returning to him.

“We could be a family: you, me, and the little darling. Come on, dear, a father should be in his child’s life.” his insidious whisper wound around you, slowly chipping away at your walls.

“I don’t even know her name.” He sounded so despondent. Surely he couldn’t make that up?

“Viola,” you murmured against your better judgment, your resolution disintegrated the longer you stayed in his presence.

“Viola,” he repeated, “What a beautiful name. Your favorite flower and my favorite instrument.” You started, your brows lowered in confusion. You shoved aside your surprise at him knowing your favorite flower to question him.

“I thought you loved the trumpet?” He certainly played it enough. Your home in New Orleans was filled with instruments, most of them jazz or swing related. He would play them until the early morning some nights, forcing you to lie sleepily on the couch to be his one-person audience.

“Oh, I am partial to it, but the sweet tones of the viola are simply sublime.” His eyes shined as he recalled listening to the rich, high notes of the viola when he would visit the theater. His gaze was far away, and you finally felt safe enough to blurted out the question that had been weighing on your mind for years but you were always too afraid to ask.

“Do you love me?” There was a time when you believe that he did, in his own special way, but after four years of marriage, you couldn’t be sure. His eyes snapped back to yours. You couldn’t read the look in its depths, and for a moment, you were terrified of what he would say next.

“Oh, _mon cœur_ , do you have to ask? How terrible of a husband I must have been,” he kissed your forehead, his hands not leaving your waist. And just like that, with his hurt tone and a slight flinch, you were filled with regret. He knew what strings to pull to get you to react, and you fell for it. Like always.

“No,” you reassured him, guilt burned inside of you at the pain you inflicted on him. Maybe it was your fault. You hadn’t paid attention to the times he was affectionate with you, or maybe you were greedy, wanting more than he could give.

“I ran away. I-I should have stayed. I’m sorry,” Tears welled up in your eyes as you thought about what he went through. What you put him through. You made him miss the birth of his child!

“Darlin’,” he crooned before he pulled you to his chest, his hand coming up to card through your hair.

“Don’t worry, I forgive you,” you didn’t see the smirk that had return to his face; his eyes darkened as his grip tightened on you, “We’ll go back home. All three of us, and start over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Here is your reminder to never get back together with your ex. They are an ex for a reason. I hope you enjoyed this little fic. It is my first time writing and publishing smut so, ya know, forgive me if it ain't the best. Practice will make perfect ;)
> 
> Translation: 
> 
> Ma moitié- My other half  
> Mon rêve- My dream  
> Mon cœur- My heart or my sweetheart


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